Soooooo This is my first Johnlock, I hope that it turns out okay.. *fingers crossed* Pleeease read and review. Thanks!


Chapter 1


John stood looking down at his friend's grave and felt tears burn his eyes. He took a slow deep breath and felt a shudder move through his chest. He didn't know why Sherlock fell, he didn't want or need to know why, he just wanted his friend back. He straightened up his back and before limping away, and he kept his eyes on the ground as he left the cemetery and haled down a cab to go back to 221 Baker Street.

He stared out the window of the cab as the rain came down, his stomach twisting and churning. It had been a week since the death of the infamous Sherlock Holmes, but John had still not recovered. He's not sure he'd ever recover. Sure Sherlock had done somethings that irritated or angered him, but he was the only friend John really had. Joh was the only one that Sherlock had.

He glanced down at his pocket as his mobile phone chirped. John sighed quietly and pulled it out of his pocket.

Haven't heard from you in a while. How are you holding up? -GL

John rolled his eyes and stuck his phone back in his pocket. John had receded back into himself, he didn't have tea with Mrs. Hudson any more, he didn't go out for a pint with Greg either. He hadn't left the flat at all really, come to think of it, he hardly left his bed.

Just recently John had been going through the local paper to find a new flat, he couldn't stay at 221B Baker Street any more. He just couldn't do it. He couldn't bare to stay in the flat that him and his friend shared, and have that constant reminder of what he had lost, what was taken from him. What Sherlock took from him. John clenched his hand around the handle of his cane tight enough to almost bruise his palm. He tightened his jaw and held back the tears that threatened to streak his face. Sure, he went to see his therapist for a while but found it never helped any. He would sit in front of his laptop sometimes and just stare at the screen, not even sure how or what to update his blog on, nothing happened to him any more. John was just back to square one after he had left Afghanistan.

John paid the cabbie and stood at the sidewalk, staring at the door to the flat. He heard his phone chirp again and he just rolled is eyes knowing it was Greg again. Didn't that man have something else better to do? Honestly! He let out a long sigh and limped his way back into the flat.

John stood in the middle of the sitting room and couldn't tear his eyes from Sherlock's arm chair. He pictured Sherlock curled up in a ball sitting in his chair, fingers steepled as he thought and went to his 'mind palace.' John sighed and felt a shudder move through his chest. He quickly shook his head, "No," he sighed as tears burned his eyes, "no." John limped his way through the sitting room and up to his bed room as he grabbed a duffle bag he had packed earlier. He didn't want to stay in the flat much longer, he needed out.

As he grabbed his bag he looked around the bedroom one more time and closing his eyes as a tear escaped his eye. He quickly wiped it away and cleared his throat, and straightened up slightly, leaving the flat and not looking back.

John got to the cab he had waved down and sat there for a moment. He wanted one last look at the 221B flat, but he felt that it would have ripped his heart out and stopped it to bits. John's phone chirped again for what he thought was the tenth time with in the past eight-teen minutes. He sighed pulling his phone from his pocket and looking at the message.

Don't bottle this up John. If you need someone. I'm here. -GL

John bit his lip as he stared at his phone and quickly text Greg back.

Greg, please. I'm fine. No need to worry about me. Honestly. -JW

It was with in seconds that he got a reply.

Well, hey, friends worry about friends. You know my number if you honestly need me. -GL

John slipped his phone back into his pocket. The cab pulled over in front of the new flat he was staying at and John paid him before grabbing his duffle bag and climbing out. He stood on the side walk staring at the brick building for a moment, his chest tight and his heart aching. He missed the consulting detective, he missed his friend, he missed Sherlock.

That night John laid in bed in his one bedroom flat and stared into the darkness. He had tossed and turned for an hour or more and laid on his stomach, wrapping his arms desperately around it, squeezing his eyes shut and started to cry. He gradually cried harder and huffed a little trying to catch his breath. He felt a shudder move through his body and murmured into his pillow with a gravely voice, "I hate being alone. Please. Sherlock. Don't be dead. I need you."


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